Always Something
by Rat
Summary: Short stories about John and Sherlock's friendship. Vague continuity. Story 2: John knows Sherlock well enough to know when something is off.
1. When John got sick

_A collection of short stories, vague continuity. _

_Thanks for reading, this is my first foray into Sherlock fandom, I hope to venture into it more._

_Britishisms... I'm from Canada, I tried, but if there is something that stands out please PM me and let me know. The same goes for my grammar and spelling, I unfortunately do not have a beta (though would love to have one), so please let me know what you find so that I may fix it. _

___John has the flu. I know this idea has been done to death, sorry. I couldn't help myself, the image of Sherlock taking care of sick John was too tempting to pass up.  
Timeline... Somewhere in Season 2_

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**_When John got sick_**

Sunday. John lay on the couch, sleeping.

Sherlock worked in the kitchen glad for the reprieve of John's watchful eye and insistence that corrosive and poisonous substances should not be placed on the counter alongside the spices. With John sleeping, so dull, Sherlock was free to spread out his equipment as he deemed necessary across the table and the counter and where ever was most advantageous to place it. It was the ideal situation for a Sunday.

Until John made a thumping noise, inadvertently knocked a pile of books off the coffee table, and sprinted down the hall. Bathroom of course. Too easy. Would it be too much to ask for John to do something out of the ordinary?

The noises coming from the bathroom were however slightly more interesting. John was currently being violently ill. Sherlock spared a thought to hope he'd made it to the toilet in time.

This was different. Welcome? No. Distracting, maybe.

Nausea, fatigue. Onset sudden? Sort of, John had been lagging behind the last couple of days but that was common.. He placed the items he'd been using at the side and followed John down the hall to stand at the open door. John was on his knees, head over toilet, right arm clutching his abdomen, left arm gripping the toilet rim. Sherlock took a bit of a step closer and peered inside. No blood. He looked at John. Sweating. Dizziness. He quickly swept a hand over John's forehead. Fever. Slight crinkling of stress-lines between the eyes, headache. Movements stiff, joint pain.

Probably cause. Viral Gastroenteritis. Influenza.

Less probably, though possible...

Heart attack? Sherlock leaned forward and placed a hand gently on John's carotid artery. Heart beat rapid. Not irregular. Breathing? A little out of breath, but within normal parameters for having just run to the bathroom and getting sick. No indication of accompanying chest pain. Not likely.

Appendicitis? Abdominal pain? Yes. Constipation? John had taken the news paper into the washroom with him that morning and had emerged five minutes after. No.

Food poisoning? Based on the contents of the kitchen and Sherlock's more recent experiments, possible. Sudden onset? Yes. Abdominal pain? Yes. Last night's supper? They'd eaten out at the fish and chips take out, they had eaten from the same basket. Sherlock felt fine. Not the fish and chips. Kitchen? John had not been hungry and only made tea. Sherlock had also had a cup. Not food poisoning.

Viral Gastroenteritis or flu.

John reached forward and flushed the toilet. He coughed, and spat into the swirling water.

Sherlock stayed in the hall, observing. He debated whether or not he should keep his distance. What were the social norms of cohabitation in these circumstances? It was a disagreeable situation for all parties concerned, but Sherlock suspected if he were the one to be sick, John would not hesitate to take care of his needs. The last time Sherlock succumbed to the flu he'd been living on his own and when Mycroft discovered his brother was ill, Mycroft sent a nurse named Bruce.

Sherlock briefly considered having Mycroft to send a nurse for John. Other than to watch that he survived the ordeal, Nurse Bruce hadn't been much use. There was also the fact that Nurse Bruce had removed his shoes and socks and his feet had smelled like old cheese which had induced an extra round of vomiting from Sherlock all on their own. That was not an experience he wished to revisit.

Sherlock could do this. He could do this for John. What had the nurse done? Sherlock couldn't remember. He'd been sleeping most of the time. Nurse Bruce had sat on the chair, tapping away at his phone. And he'd brought him water. And a mixing bowl just in case he couldn't make it to the bathroom on time. Nurse Bruce hadn't emptied the bowl. Sherlock decided ahead of time that the mixing bowl would be emptied and cleaned as necessary.

Sherlock left and brought back a glass of water. John was sitting again. He passed John the glass, which John accepted and took a tentative sip.

"Couch." Sherlock reached down and placed the water glass on the counter and helped pull John upright.

"I might-"

"I will bring you a mixing bowl." Sherlock answered. He helped steer John back to the living room and to the couch. John laid down and Sherlock placed a mixing bowl beside him and then retrieved the water glass and placed that beside him as well.

He held up a thermometer and handed that to John as well.

John looked at it. "Is this the same one that was in the fridge? It was in the jar of whatever that was."

"Toes. They have to be kept at a certain temperature. Put this under your tongue."

"No."

"I sanitized it." Sherlock assured him.

"No." John said firmly.

Sherlock sighed. "Don't be tedious. How do doctors ever deal with the living?"

"There's a clean thermometer in the first aid box in the closet."

"This is the clean thermometer from the first aid box in the closest." Sherlock answered. "I did sanitize it. I do know how to do these things." He emphatically gestured towards the kitchen table. "Your illness is already inconvenient. Why would I want to jeopardize your recovery?"

John grabbed it and stuffed it in his mouth.

They waited. Sherlock plucked it out at the appointed time and held it gingerly between two fingers. "Thirty nine point three." He stared at it, and then at John. "That's too high. What now?"

"Nothing. I just need to sleep."

Sherlock made a face. "You have the flu."

"Yes, I know. Thanks."

Sherlock took the thermometer and very carefully took it to the kitchen and placed it in a glass so that he could deal with sanitizing it later, and returned to John. He pushed the water glass closer. "Drink, or you will get dehydrated."

"I'll throw up again."

Sherlock sighed and sat on the coffee table, watching John intently while John tried and failed to glare back at him. "What do you want?" John asked.

"This is the extent of my knowledge on what to do for someone sick with flu. It would be useful to know exactly which strain you are suffering from in order to more accurately. I was under the impression you'd had the flu shot. Of course the vaccination only covers certain strains of the flu and in your clinic I am sure you have come into contact with more than enough varieties to make it probably that one of them were not in the list of one's covered. And that is only if it is indeed influenza rather than viral gastroenteritis. We could do further testing..."

"What do you want, Sherlock?"

"I am waiting for you to tell me what to do."

"Everything you have already done is fine. Please just let me sleep."

"Oh." He stood up and took a couple of steps away before turning back. "I will be in the kitchen. If you need something, just shout." He returned to the kitchen, sat down and leaned over to look at the couch again. John appeared to be sleeping. His eyes were closed and he wasn't moving, and yes he was breathing. That was good. He turned back to his equipment. Would John actually call him if he needed something? Sherlock remembered being angry that Mycroft sent the nurse, as it had insinuated that Mycroft did not believe that Sherlock could not take care of himself.

Did John feel the same way? Was he irritated that Sherlock was taking care of him?

He stood up and went back to the living room and sat on the coffee table again. "John."

John opened his eyes.

"You will tell me wont you? If you need something?"

"Let me sleep."

"But, if I can do something for you, I will."

John groaned, rolled over slightly and then tensed. "Bowl."

Sherlock scooped up the mixing bowl and shoved it in John's direction just in time. It was an awkward position, for John, being laying on his side and propped up on one arm, so Sherlock moved to the side and helped pull John up so that he could at least be sitting. Once the round of vomiting had finished, Sherlock moved the bowl aside and eased John back down. Oh, and the bowl. He quickly left to empty the bowl.

When he returned John's eyes were closed again. He set he bowl down, made certain the glass of water was within John's reach and went back to the kitchen.

It happened sometimes when Sherlock got engrossed in what he was doing that he lost track of time. He was aware of the flaw but not always able to control it. He studied the thin layer of skin he'd peeled off the cold thumbs in the fridge and the thumbs he'd had hidden behind the crackers in the cupboard and compared the tissues pre and post the introduction of sodium hydroxide. He noted the amount of time the tissue had been submerged and the deterioration...

It was two hours since he'd paid attention to the other room.

He hadn't heard anything from the other room. Or at least he hadn't registered hearing anything from the other room, that did not mean there hadn't been something to hear.

It was unacceptable. Sherlock decided the skin tissue could keep for another five minutes.

John was still sleeping. The water beside him untouched. The bowl empty. Sherlock stepped closer. "John?" Yes, John was still breathing.

"John?" He gently prodded John in the shoulder. Nothing.

Unresponsive.

Unresponsive... Sherlock's brain froze at the list of...

And then John grunted and rolled over.

John is tired and needs to rest. Of course.

"John. I need to take your temperature." Sherlock said insistently. Finally John opened his eyes. As soon as his mouth opened Sherlock popped in the thermometer. He suspected John had been about to say something along of the lines of _leave me alone_ or _get out of my face_ but neither was relevant to the situation.

At the appropriate time Sherlock removed the device. "Thirty eight point nine." he read aloud and like last time though the information seemed significant he wasn't exactly certain what to do about it. Sherlock picked up the water glass. "Drink."

John sighed and sat up. He drank.

"Would you like me to have Mrs. Hudson to make us some soup?"

"No."

Sherlock considered. "You should eat."

"No. I should sleep." John lied back down. "Go away."

Sherlock backed up and sat in his chair. He knew John didn't really mean what he said, John was miserable, and people who feel miserable say miserable things.

"Are you bored?"

"I'm tired."

"Being sick is boring." Sherlock returned to his experiment in the kitchen. He was reasonably certain that John would fully recover with proper rest. Until then, he would continue his ministrations and help John feel better. He glanced at the clock and set his mind that he would check on John in half an hour, that should give John enough time to sleep and feel well enough to listen to Sherlock explain the results of his base temperature of deceased tissue exposed to sodium hydroxide experiment.

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Thanks for reading!


	2. Too long a day

Cold cases.

_"__Go sit over there, look through what you need but none of this leaves this office.__" Lestrade instructed. _

John watched Sherlock look around the crowded area with distaste. "Do you not have a spare office?" The consulting detective asked.

"It's fine." John assured Lestrade. "This will do fine."

"No, you stay here where someone can keep an eye on the two of you." Lestrade insisted. "I don't want a repeat of the last time you were here."

The last time Sherlock had somehow found his way into the evidence locker. He did solve a case from having done so, but even so, after that they were lucky to be let in the station again at all.

Sherlock did not look pleased, but he didn't argue.

"Nothing leaves the office." Lestrade repeated at John this time, as though it were John Watson who needed the reminder.

Sherlock sat down and flung open a file. "If you see anything that even maybe fits the description, let me see it."

John pulled up a metal chair from the side of another desk and opened another file. They were looking for something specific that Sherlock had seen in passing more than twice near linked crime scenes, something that could be nothing, could be only coincidence, but was most likely something so much more. Looking carefully through the images collected from cold case crime scenes, anything that might have been missed that didn't seem to fit at the time but could potentially solve the entire case.

A couple of officers yelled back and forth across the room, something about the coffee machine. This room was not ideal, it was loud and busy. A woman working administration brushed past the desk and a pile of files were flung to the floor. There had been an order to those, and John spent half an hour sorting it out again.

Sherlock seemed engrossed in his task, but even he wasn't immune to the distractions around them.

A thin young man in handcuffs started shouting and a brief fight broke out. He was slammed against the wall and dragged off somewhere else.

The minutes crawled by towards lunch.

"He doesn't belong there." Sherlock passed John a picture. "The man standing beside the door, if he were at a different angle, but it's just the side of his head." He took out a magnifying glass and looked more carefully. He placed the photo in a specific pile.

John sighed and refocused on the task at hand. Lunch break, Sherlock wasn't interested in food, and so John joined a couple of staff detectives on a run to the sandwich cart, brought it back to eat at the desk.

"Want some?"

Sherlock only briefly glanced up and muttered something under his breath.

John did notice that every once and a while Sherlock would stop paging through files and look up and around the office with a look he couldn't quite determine. Then the noise got bad, Sherlock frowned and rubbed at his head slightly as though he had a headache. As the lunch hour ended the room became even busier than it had before, if that was possible.

The file John was flipping through was one of the more gruesome ones. He hated to think he found it interesting that there could be so much blood spread over the walls, too much blood. Not unless... he looked up at Sherlock ready to draw his attention to it, but hesitated instead.

"There isn't enough." Sherlock swiped at something that only his own eyes could see. "The crowds, the onlookers hoping to catch a spot of blood or a body bag. All looking in different directions, what is catching their attention. The police. The scene, not if they can't see the scene. Also the killer is there, watching, enjoying. If he can't see the scene? Where? He watches the detectives, do they know, what do they have. Where are the others?"

Sherlock talking and working things through out loud. Not abnormal. What struck John as being off once he started listening, was that Sherlock was talking himself in circles and getting no where.

John couldn't help but think of the many times Sherlock demanded quiet in order to think. There were distractions everywhere, suspects being led in, statements taken. All busy noisy and totally chaotic.

And John wasn't the only one to notice. Sally Donovan stood along the far wall fixing them with a steady glare. There were others too, not many, but a couple of the more perceptive agents in the room were also glancing at their corner. Focusing on Sherlock. Not good.

"Are you..." John started asking and then snapped his mouth shut. This wasn't Sherlock being brilliant. This was something entirely different. Asking if the man was alright wasn't going to do any good, because it was glaringly obvious, to John, that things were not alright. He reached out and gently placed his fingers on Sherlock's wrist, eliciting a slight flinch from his friend and a sudden halt to all things verbal. Sherlock did not, however, pull away. John held his fingers steady, and Sherlock looked down at John's hand on his wrist as though it were a new mystery to solve.

Rapid pulse.

John let go and sat back. Okay. What now? Sherlock had his quirks and he could be bloody infuriating, but he was also a genius the likes of which JOhn had never had the pleasure of seeing before. Part of that genius came with certain weaknesses, one of which included sensory overload. John knew Sherlock was struggling, and he wasn't going to let it happen in the open. He placed a marker in the file he was looking through and closed it carefully. Then got up and walked away. He'd only taken three steps.

"John?" Sherlock did notice him leave. John could hear the uncertainty in the other man's voice.

"I'll be right back." He continued on towards Donovan, with Sherlock watching closely. He didn't even dare guess what his friend's mind was getting up to. John caught Sally's attention and pulled her aside. "Is there somewhere quiet?"

She looked past him again. "Is he high?"

John gave her a withering look. "Yes, that's exactly it. He smuggled something in here to use in front of everyone because we all know he's stupid enough to get high in a room full of detectives."

She huffed out an exasperated breath and waited for him to continue.

John glanced back to where Sherlock was sitting. "Is there someplace quiet? It's really busy in here. You know what he's like."

"So what then? A panic attack? Great that's all we need here is the freak going mental on us. Can't you just take him somewhere else? Away from here?"

"We're close to finding something." John explained. "If we could look over the files somewhere quiet, I'm sure he'll figure it out."

She sighed. "Fine. There's the old interrogation rooms over where they're renovating on the east side. Shouldn't be anyone over there."

John went back and sat down. He leaned in, not sure how to go about this. "Sherlock."

Sherlock regarded him closely, suspiciously.

"It's really loud in here and it's given me a splitting headache. Sally's got a space we could move to." John stacked up the folders and picked up as much as he could. Sherlock just stared at him. "You know, could help me with these." John added, and Sherlock gathered up the rest, which wasn't much.

They walked down the hall, to a corridor and turned left and stepped around a construction barricade. Sally unlocked a door and stood back, John glanced inside. Clean-ish. An older room but plain, long unused since the new addition had been completed. A table bolted to the floor and a couple of old chairs. John dumped his pile of files down on the table, and took the other pile from Sherlock.

Sally rolled her eyes and walked out slamming the door shut.

If he'd been intending to do any work right away, John would have sat at the table. As it was though, he sat on the floor and leaned back his head. He just breathed, and Sherlock stood over him watching. And then, slowly he sat down a couple feet away and took the same pose. Head back, eyes closed.

"Thank you for that." Sherlock said softly. Humbly.

John took a relieved breath. "Better?"

Sherlock nodded his head slightly. "Obvious, was it?"

"To me at least."

Sherlock looked away. "I thought... I assumed I'd be able to manage."

John shrugged. "It wasn't that bad."

Sherlock looked up and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Oh for gods sake, I don't want pity, John."

"The things you can do are simply put; astonishing. I consider it an honour to work at your side."

"This..."

"Wasn't the end of the world. I don't think anyone even noticed anything unusual, and even if they did it doesn't change anything." John assured him. "Ready to keep on?"

Sherlock looked over at the table and then back John sitting beside him. "Soon. Not yet."

"Would you like some time alone?"

"No. Unless you want..."

"No." John leaned up against the wall. Tilted his head back. "I think I'm exactly where I should be."


End file.
